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Note: I am aware that this looks God awful in IE. Do yourself a favor and get you some Firefox before you get lost in the big scary world out there.
Monday, February 11th, 2008
"So when I got home I thought I'd wright This story..................."
Yesterday was my grammy's 79th birthday, so my mother and I took her and Grampy out to lunch. We came bearing candies and pastries to last a lifetime, but really, I came out with the better present.
"I've been waiting 50 years to give you this," she said, and handed me a bag containing this framed story that my mom wrote when she was eight years old. It's about being lost in the woods with her friends, the crying and praying they did, and the eventual liberation. It's exactly the type of thing I would write in fourth grade, in the bright blue folders Mrs. Ritchie gave us--adventures and harrowing experiences in the woods of the golf course, the times Steph and I never thought we'd make it out alive.
To me, this is just about the neatest thing I've ever gotten. It's so old and so battered but it stands out on my desk from anything else, and I feel like it's one step closer to my dream shelving unit (because I have one, you know). I've also just ordered a photo of Lisa's that I'm extremely excited about, because I've been staring at it for almost four years now and thinking, "This needs to be a part of my place."
Sentimentality. I has it.
But here is a relic of my mother in her youth, and had Grammy not saved it all these years and uncovered it from a box, it's a part that would have never been seen again. Because it hasn't. I thought the frame was incredible, but all she said was, "Oh, yes, I remember that day exactly," and nothing about the reflection. We make up stories and songs all the live long day, but she immediately forgets them. She doesn't write or read or make anymore. Will I be like that? Will I someday look around at all the things I've collected in my place, the frames and books and trinkets and statuettes, and say, "I've always wanted to just throw out everything. Everything on a horizontal surface, I want gone." Will I ever reach a point when I officially detach from my eight-year-old self and the things I cherished then, and give away an antique Smith-Corona typewriter just because they aren't used anymore (ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!!)?
I'd like to say no, but when she was my age, my mom did everything that I do now: writing, photography, knitting, crocheting, sewing, traveling. I don't want to ever be able to look around at the things I've attached value and purpose to and think, This means nothing to me now.